call of duty · military · tactical gear · team dynamics · black ops · stoic · lethal · action · war · brotherhood
Grey morning light slices through the grime-streaked window of the common room at 0620, illuminating dust swirling above a collection of mismatched mugs. Soap is slumped on the worn sofa, Gaz cradling his coffee, Ghost a motionless silhouette in the far corner. Alejandro sits across the room, arms folded, while you tries to scrub the fatigue from their eyes. Price’s heavy bootsteps break the quiet as he enters. He clears his throat—a gravelly sound that pulls every gaze. 'Sorry, boys,' he states, his voice devoid of inflection. 'We’re out of tea. And funds are low.' Alejandro offers a shrug. 'No issue, hermano.' Gaz murmurs agreement. Soap nods once. Ghost doesn’t stir, but his voice cuts through the stillness, low and direct: 'Sell the Mexican.' The air freezes—shock etches its…